Conchaga
Let's fuck some shit up
This is a long one. Bear with me because it's gonna be good.
I've got three stitches in my right index finger. I didn't do it on purpose, either.
So, Saint Patrick's Day was Friday. My friend from Kuwait came in to town that night. We decided that we needed to get wasted and have a good time to celebrate his arrival and pay homage to our favorite, canonized Irishman. In that purpose, we were successful. We got completely tanked. We were so trashed that it was difficult to walk. This is how I got my wound. I tripped on something, and fell on some broken glass in the gutter. Remember ladies and gentlemen, recycle your glass. Otherwise, it becomes a hazard for drunken imbeciles, like myself. I was so wasted that I didn't notice the pain of the wound. I also didn't notice the copious amounts of blood that I was losing as a result of this boo boo. Most of which ended up decorating my jeans and T-shirt. Well, after getting sidetracked and wandering aimlessly through the streets of uptown New Orleans we finally made it home. I stripped my bloodstained clothing and passed-out. Waking up this morning I noticed the pain in my hand and the bloodstains all over my sheets. By our estimate, I lost nearly a pint of blood. I'm a bleeder. Who knew?
Considering the fact that I was still losing precious plasma, we decided that it would be in our best interest to go to a hospital. We wanted to see if I could get some pain meds and a few pieces of thread in my oozing finger. First, we had to return Eric's rental car to the airport. We set out towards the airport, returned Eric's car (side note: it would be incredibly simple to steal a car from Budget Rent-A-Car at the New Orleans Airport), and turned around and went to find the nearest hospital.
We found one in Metairie: Tulane Medical Center. There, we were greeted by a very nice woman in flowery scrubs who gave me a clipboard and an sheet of paper requiring my information. Notice, I'm right-handed and bleeding from my right index finger. What did she want me to do, bleed on the paper? I handed the clipboard to Eric and told him he'd be filling out the form for me.
After watching some deranged cartoon about insects in school that was playing on the television in the waiting area I was taken to the ER triage room. Nurse Al wrapped the BP cuff around my bicep and placed a thermometer in my mouth. After removing the thermometer, she asked me a few questions about my injury. When she had compiled all of the information she needed, she dismissed me back to the waiting room.
A picture of the strange bug show.
‘Al’, as she asks me a few questions.
Eric and myself in the triage room.
Back in the waiting area the TV show had changed to some teen drama. (side note: - number two, for those keeping track - When did Raven, of "Dr Doolittle" and "That's so Raven!" fame, get so damned huge? She used to be this cute skinny girl. Now she's a giant, voluptuous, black woman.) The waiters had been changed, as well. There was a boy eating chicken fingers, a small girl with hives on her face, and a woman with no apparent injuries or ailments. Later, we would discover that the woman was in to renew the prescription on her pain medication for an injury she had obtained working at her job.
Some woman emerged from a side-door and called my name. Eric followed because he said that someone needed to be there when I started crying like a schoolgirl with a skinned knee. He wanted to take pictures also. He took a lot. I'll post them on here as soon as I get them loaded on photobucket. The nice nurse showed me to a small room with a bed and a curtain for a door. She filled a container with iodine and ordered me to soak my finger in it. Iodine is great because it doesn't burn on minor wounds. It's perfect for treating children who hurt themselves playing around. So, remembering my pleasant history with the inky brownish-yellow liquid I stuck my aching digit into the container. Approximately ten minutes afterwards it had seeped through what scab had formed on the laceration. The pain was bearable, but not enjoyable.
Soaking my poor finger in iodine.
My arm was beginning to get tired of staying in one position for an elongated period of time. I was also becoming restless. Eric, by this point, had run off to hit on some cute blonde nurse. I wanted a piece of the action. I got up and wandered towards the counter where Eric was doing what he does best, talk to anyone and everyone he sees. Since Eric is a certified Army medic he knows when a patient isn't doing what they're supposed to. The following quote, and pretty much every direct quote afterwards, is written on a piece of bright orange paper from a notepad that Eric procured from the nurses. I'll go more in-depth about the notes later. "Get back in your cubicle, fucker. If I was in "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory", I would play that little flute and your ass would be carried back to bed by Oompa Loompas." He barked this at me, but I immediately disobeyed him and walked towards the counter to get a better look at the hot nurse.
Eric ceased his conversation with the nurses and escorted me back to the little room. There, I tell him, "This definitely needs to be weblogged."
Eric responded, "I guess I will be typing this for you?"
Wiggling the other nine uninjured fingers I reply, "No, I'll be OK. Besides, most people can type, "Oh my God I'm cumming" with only one hand."
It was then that Eric thought to write down some of the things being said. He meandered back to the nurses' workstation and asked for a pen and some paper. He came back with a notepad and a Bic pen. He proceeded to write down the funnier parts of our conversations. I'll add the contents of those notes as this story progresses.
Orange notes.
One of the nurses came by and told me that since we came in at shift change the ER doctor on call would be arriving at about six o'clock. It was 5:45PM at that time. We waited the extra fifteen minutes. Eventually, an Indian man dressed in black slacks pulled up to the middle of his stomach and a blue scrub top tucked neatly into his slacks, cinched-tight with a brown belt walked up and offered his right hand for me to shake. “Hello, I’m Doctor Naeem,†he stated. I give him a look as if to say, “my right hand is bleeding and soaking in iodine, you moron.†I begin to wonder if this doctor had ever killed anyone. I had just read an article about Doctor Death, also an Indian immigrant. I was beginning to worry, just slightly.
The doctor asks me a few more questions, prods my wound, and nods. He takes some gauze and scrapes away the remaining coagulated blood on my cut. It is excruciatingly painful as he does this. Meantime, Eric is taking video of my ordeal. After the doctor had successfully managed to send me reeling in pain, he tells me that I’ll need to have x-rays taken of my finger to see if there is any remaining glass inside my cut. I ask urgently that he give me a local anesthetic for the pain in my now throbbing finger. He tells me that he’ll numb my hand before he amputates. I guess this was his payback for shooting him such a dirty look when we first met. I see through his little joke and he smiles.
A clean cut.
I’m ready for my close-up Mr. Deville.
A few more minutes pass and we are greeted by an affectionate black x-ray tech. He leads me through the labyrinth of corridors to the x-ray room. He positions my hand and the machine to take the shots he’ll need. He ducks behind the safety of the wall to take the x-rays. I’m always skeptical of anything that the professionals don’t want to be in the room for. Especially when it involves them hiding behind lead-coated walls. He emerges a few moments later and tells me to wait while he processes the exposures. I survey the room and notice several medieval-like devices that I’ll never understand, and hopefully never have to experience. When the x-rays are done he leads me back through the dark maze of the hospital to my little room. Eric is there and looking tired.
The doctor takes a look at the x-rays and reports back to me that there’s no glass. He says I’ll have to wait for a minute while he attends to other patients. Within ten minutes he’s back with a tray filled with surgical goodies. He removes several items, a vial of lidocaine, a syringe, and an 18-gauge needle. Now, for those of you that don’t know, an 18-gauge needle can be compared to a coffee stir. It’s rather imposing. I’m thinking, “I’m here to heal a wound, not get piercings in my finger.†I ask the doctor if he’s joking. He looks at me with a straight face that’s as serious as a heart attack and tells me he’s not joking. Eric has a video clip of my reaction to this hollow steel bar on the end of the syringe. After the doctor had filled the syringe with a large dose of lidocaine he looked at me and smiled a very mischievous smile. He removed the larger needle from the end of the syringe and replaced it with one the size of a small pin. “This is the needle we use for little girls,†he boasts, priding himself on the fact that he totally just fooled me into believing that he was going to use the larger needle. Again, this must have been his payback for the dirty look and lack of confidence I had for him at the beginning of our relationship.
I look at Eric and ask jokingly, “will you hold my hand?â€
“Fuck no! I’m taking pictures.â€
Eric then ran back to the nurses’ station to get more batteries for his camera. While Eric was hustling for more batteries my experience was beginning. Doctor Naeem inserted the needle into my finger in three locations, delivering a heavy dose of the numbing viscous liquid with each injection. Every time he depressed the plunger on the syringe, pushing the lidocane into the meat of my finger, I experienced some of the worst pain of my life. With each surge of pain firing up my arm I released a loud groan. Eric, still trying to get batteries exclaimed, “listen to those grunts. That sounds like it hurts. I’m missing it.†Finally, the nurses managed to find some extra batteries and handed them to Eric.
When he returned the doctor was prepping my hand for stitches. Taking some surgical clamps and scissors he trimmed away the flap of skin protruding from my injury. Turning to Eric, I tell him, “it wants to hurt, but it can’t.†By this time I was loving modern medicine and lidocaine. When he had finished removing the dead skin he laced-up a suture needle. Carefully, he began sewing my finger closed. He did a fantastic job. We made some banter about what kind of knots he uses in the stitching and he explains that it’s a simple fisherman’s knot. Who knew? When he had finished I had three fresh stitches in my finger. He told me that he was going to put me on a regimen of antibiotics and have someone dress the wound. I thanked him for his work. I told him that should he consider a career change, being a seamstress would be perfect for him. He says his goodbyes and that is the last I saw of Doctor Naeem.
Smiling because it’s the first time I’m not in pain.
Looking at the new ‘skirt’ my finger has.
Suturing in action.
Finished product.
Rock on!
After a few minutes a male nurse came into my little room and began to clean the newly stitched cut. When he was satisfied that the cut was completely sterilized he began wrapping it in gauze. While he was working he was giving us great advice on what restaurants and bars to visit while Eric was in New Orleans. Seriously, this man is a walking Zagat’s guide. While he was regaling us with stories of bars and restaurants the hot blonde nurse reappeared. She had quite a few stories herself. One of which I’ll share with you.
The human decanter. A few years ago a man was constantly coming into the ER complaining of urinary tract infections. He was in and out of the ER at least once a week. Finally, the doctor asked what he was doing that caused him to have so many UTI’s. The man told him that he was acting as a human decanter. When the doctor asked what that was, the man replied that he acts as a serving tool for wine and other alcohol. What this entails is catheterizing himself and draining all of the urine from his bladder. Afterwards he fills his bladder with wine or something else. He then walks around and urinates into the glasses of the customers where he worked. Thus, he is a human decanter.
When the male nurse had finished his dressing of my wound he told me to report to the woman at the front desk. This lovely lady was probably having the best day of her life. Eric and I had managed to crack jokes and have an all-around good time with everyone we’d met in the ER up to this point. Try as we may, we couldn’t get a rise out of this woman. My guess is that she was so involved in the bureaucracy that her sense of humor was completely numbed. I made a joke about pigmys with blowguns and tranq darts running around the hospital. No laughing. I turn to Eric and say, “rough crowd.†She completes the work on my insurance and hands me my discharge papers. With those in-hand Eric and I exit the building to go find some chicken fingers.
The End.
I've got three stitches in my right index finger. I didn't do it on purpose, either.
So, Saint Patrick's Day was Friday. My friend from Kuwait came in to town that night. We decided that we needed to get wasted and have a good time to celebrate his arrival and pay homage to our favorite, canonized Irishman. In that purpose, we were successful. We got completely tanked. We were so trashed that it was difficult to walk. This is how I got my wound. I tripped on something, and fell on some broken glass in the gutter. Remember ladies and gentlemen, recycle your glass. Otherwise, it becomes a hazard for drunken imbeciles, like myself. I was so wasted that I didn't notice the pain of the wound. I also didn't notice the copious amounts of blood that I was losing as a result of this boo boo. Most of which ended up decorating my jeans and T-shirt. Well, after getting sidetracked and wandering aimlessly through the streets of uptown New Orleans we finally made it home. I stripped my bloodstained clothing and passed-out. Waking up this morning I noticed the pain in my hand and the bloodstains all over my sheets. By our estimate, I lost nearly a pint of blood. I'm a bleeder. Who knew?
Considering the fact that I was still losing precious plasma, we decided that it would be in our best interest to go to a hospital. We wanted to see if I could get some pain meds and a few pieces of thread in my oozing finger. First, we had to return Eric's rental car to the airport. We set out towards the airport, returned Eric's car (side note: it would be incredibly simple to steal a car from Budget Rent-A-Car at the New Orleans Airport), and turned around and went to find the nearest hospital.
We found one in Metairie: Tulane Medical Center. There, we were greeted by a very nice woman in flowery scrubs who gave me a clipboard and an sheet of paper requiring my information. Notice, I'm right-handed and bleeding from my right index finger. What did she want me to do, bleed on the paper? I handed the clipboard to Eric and told him he'd be filling out the form for me.
After watching some deranged cartoon about insects in school that was playing on the television in the waiting area I was taken to the ER triage room. Nurse Al wrapped the BP cuff around my bicep and placed a thermometer in my mouth. After removing the thermometer, she asked me a few questions about my injury. When she had compiled all of the information she needed, she dismissed me back to the waiting room.
A picture of the strange bug show.
‘Al’, as she asks me a few questions.
Eric and myself in the triage room.
Back in the waiting area the TV show had changed to some teen drama. (side note: - number two, for those keeping track - When did Raven, of "Dr Doolittle" and "That's so Raven!" fame, get so damned huge? She used to be this cute skinny girl. Now she's a giant, voluptuous, black woman.) The waiters had been changed, as well. There was a boy eating chicken fingers, a small girl with hives on her face, and a woman with no apparent injuries or ailments. Later, we would discover that the woman was in to renew the prescription on her pain medication for an injury she had obtained working at her job.
Some woman emerged from a side-door and called my name. Eric followed because he said that someone needed to be there when I started crying like a schoolgirl with a skinned knee. He wanted to take pictures also. He took a lot. I'll post them on here as soon as I get them loaded on photobucket. The nice nurse showed me to a small room with a bed and a curtain for a door. She filled a container with iodine and ordered me to soak my finger in it. Iodine is great because it doesn't burn on minor wounds. It's perfect for treating children who hurt themselves playing around. So, remembering my pleasant history with the inky brownish-yellow liquid I stuck my aching digit into the container. Approximately ten minutes afterwards it had seeped through what scab had formed on the laceration. The pain was bearable, but not enjoyable.
Soaking my poor finger in iodine.
My arm was beginning to get tired of staying in one position for an elongated period of time. I was also becoming restless. Eric, by this point, had run off to hit on some cute blonde nurse. I wanted a piece of the action. I got up and wandered towards the counter where Eric was doing what he does best, talk to anyone and everyone he sees. Since Eric is a certified Army medic he knows when a patient isn't doing what they're supposed to. The following quote, and pretty much every direct quote afterwards, is written on a piece of bright orange paper from a notepad that Eric procured from the nurses. I'll go more in-depth about the notes later. "Get back in your cubicle, fucker. If I was in "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory", I would play that little flute and your ass would be carried back to bed by Oompa Loompas." He barked this at me, but I immediately disobeyed him and walked towards the counter to get a better look at the hot nurse.
Eric ceased his conversation with the nurses and escorted me back to the little room. There, I tell him, "This definitely needs to be weblogged."
Eric responded, "I guess I will be typing this for you?"
Wiggling the other nine uninjured fingers I reply, "No, I'll be OK. Besides, most people can type, "Oh my God I'm cumming" with only one hand."
It was then that Eric thought to write down some of the things being said. He meandered back to the nurses' workstation and asked for a pen and some paper. He came back with a notepad and a Bic pen. He proceeded to write down the funnier parts of our conversations. I'll add the contents of those notes as this story progresses.
Orange notes.
One of the nurses came by and told me that since we came in at shift change the ER doctor on call would be arriving at about six o'clock. It was 5:45PM at that time. We waited the extra fifteen minutes. Eventually, an Indian man dressed in black slacks pulled up to the middle of his stomach and a blue scrub top tucked neatly into his slacks, cinched-tight with a brown belt walked up and offered his right hand for me to shake. “Hello, I’m Doctor Naeem,†he stated. I give him a look as if to say, “my right hand is bleeding and soaking in iodine, you moron.†I begin to wonder if this doctor had ever killed anyone. I had just read an article about Doctor Death, also an Indian immigrant. I was beginning to worry, just slightly.
The doctor asks me a few more questions, prods my wound, and nods. He takes some gauze and scrapes away the remaining coagulated blood on my cut. It is excruciatingly painful as he does this. Meantime, Eric is taking video of my ordeal. After the doctor had successfully managed to send me reeling in pain, he tells me that I’ll need to have x-rays taken of my finger to see if there is any remaining glass inside my cut. I ask urgently that he give me a local anesthetic for the pain in my now throbbing finger. He tells me that he’ll numb my hand before he amputates. I guess this was his payback for shooting him such a dirty look when we first met. I see through his little joke and he smiles.
A clean cut.
I’m ready for my close-up Mr. Deville.
A few more minutes pass and we are greeted by an affectionate black x-ray tech. He leads me through the labyrinth of corridors to the x-ray room. He positions my hand and the machine to take the shots he’ll need. He ducks behind the safety of the wall to take the x-rays. I’m always skeptical of anything that the professionals don’t want to be in the room for. Especially when it involves them hiding behind lead-coated walls. He emerges a few moments later and tells me to wait while he processes the exposures. I survey the room and notice several medieval-like devices that I’ll never understand, and hopefully never have to experience. When the x-rays are done he leads me back through the dark maze of the hospital to my little room. Eric is there and looking tired.
The doctor takes a look at the x-rays and reports back to me that there’s no glass. He says I’ll have to wait for a minute while he attends to other patients. Within ten minutes he’s back with a tray filled with surgical goodies. He removes several items, a vial of lidocaine, a syringe, and an 18-gauge needle. Now, for those of you that don’t know, an 18-gauge needle can be compared to a coffee stir. It’s rather imposing. I’m thinking, “I’m here to heal a wound, not get piercings in my finger.†I ask the doctor if he’s joking. He looks at me with a straight face that’s as serious as a heart attack and tells me he’s not joking. Eric has a video clip of my reaction to this hollow steel bar on the end of the syringe. After the doctor had filled the syringe with a large dose of lidocaine he looked at me and smiled a very mischievous smile. He removed the larger needle from the end of the syringe and replaced it with one the size of a small pin. “This is the needle we use for little girls,†he boasts, priding himself on the fact that he totally just fooled me into believing that he was going to use the larger needle. Again, this must have been his payback for the dirty look and lack of confidence I had for him at the beginning of our relationship.
I look at Eric and ask jokingly, “will you hold my hand?â€
“Fuck no! I’m taking pictures.â€
Eric then ran back to the nurses’ station to get more batteries for his camera. While Eric was hustling for more batteries my experience was beginning. Doctor Naeem inserted the needle into my finger in three locations, delivering a heavy dose of the numbing viscous liquid with each injection. Every time he depressed the plunger on the syringe, pushing the lidocane into the meat of my finger, I experienced some of the worst pain of my life. With each surge of pain firing up my arm I released a loud groan. Eric, still trying to get batteries exclaimed, “listen to those grunts. That sounds like it hurts. I’m missing it.†Finally, the nurses managed to find some extra batteries and handed them to Eric.
When he returned the doctor was prepping my hand for stitches. Taking some surgical clamps and scissors he trimmed away the flap of skin protruding from my injury. Turning to Eric, I tell him, “it wants to hurt, but it can’t.†By this time I was loving modern medicine and lidocaine. When he had finished removing the dead skin he laced-up a suture needle. Carefully, he began sewing my finger closed. He did a fantastic job. We made some banter about what kind of knots he uses in the stitching and he explains that it’s a simple fisherman’s knot. Who knew? When he had finished I had three fresh stitches in my finger. He told me that he was going to put me on a regimen of antibiotics and have someone dress the wound. I thanked him for his work. I told him that should he consider a career change, being a seamstress would be perfect for him. He says his goodbyes and that is the last I saw of Doctor Naeem.
Smiling because it’s the first time I’m not in pain.
Looking at the new ‘skirt’ my finger has.
Suturing in action.
Finished product.
Rock on!
After a few minutes a male nurse came into my little room and began to clean the newly stitched cut. When he was satisfied that the cut was completely sterilized he began wrapping it in gauze. While he was working he was giving us great advice on what restaurants and bars to visit while Eric was in New Orleans. Seriously, this man is a walking Zagat’s guide. While he was regaling us with stories of bars and restaurants the hot blonde nurse reappeared. She had quite a few stories herself. One of which I’ll share with you.
The human decanter. A few years ago a man was constantly coming into the ER complaining of urinary tract infections. He was in and out of the ER at least once a week. Finally, the doctor asked what he was doing that caused him to have so many UTI’s. The man told him that he was acting as a human decanter. When the doctor asked what that was, the man replied that he acts as a serving tool for wine and other alcohol. What this entails is catheterizing himself and draining all of the urine from his bladder. Afterwards he fills his bladder with wine or something else. He then walks around and urinates into the glasses of the customers where he worked. Thus, he is a human decanter.
When the male nurse had finished his dressing of my wound he told me to report to the woman at the front desk. This lovely lady was probably having the best day of her life. Eric and I had managed to crack jokes and have an all-around good time with everyone we’d met in the ER up to this point. Try as we may, we couldn’t get a rise out of this woman. My guess is that she was so involved in the bureaucracy that her sense of humor was completely numbed. I made a joke about pigmys with blowguns and tranq darts running around the hospital. No laughing. I turn to Eric and say, “rough crowd.†She completes the work on my insurance and hands me my discharge papers. With those in-hand Eric and I exit the building to go find some chicken fingers.
The End.
Industrial drill press accident.
